CHAPTER VII.THE VISITORS.It was dark before the West of England express pulled into Paddington Station. Rupert alighted, carrying a suit-case in his hand. He avoided the temptation of taking a taxi-cab, but walked to the underground railway and took a train to Westminster. He was turning over a new leaf, and, though for the moment he had plenty of money, he had made up his mind henceforth not to spend a penny more than was necessary.He had not warned his landlady that he was coming, so he found that she was out and that nothing was ready for him. His rooms looked dusty and uncared-for, the blinds were drawn, the atmosphere was cold and cheerless.The servant suggested lighting the fire, but Rupert shook his head. He was going to do without luxuries of any sort. The first thing he did was to write a letter to Sir Reginald at the Imperial Hotel, telling him of his arrival and saying he was at his service during the whole of the next day. Then, after unpacking his suit-case and changing his clothes, he went out and had dinner at a humble restaurant. He would have telephoned to Ruby, but there was not much time, and, again, it would have meant added expense.It was curious and irritating how important money had suddenly become. It seemed to check him at every turn—though there was gold in his purse and a balance at his bank. A week or two ago when he had been really broke, it scarcely troubled him. Not as it troubled him now.For the first time in his life he realised its importance. And his father's words continually echoed in his ears.At eight o'clock he went to the Ingenue Theatre and waited at the stage door for Ruby Strode to arrive. She generally put in an appearance between eight and eight-fifteen. Every minute cabs and motor-cars drew up and members of the company got out and passed through the narrow entrance to the back of the theatre. Some of the girls he recognised, but he kept out of the way, as he did not wish to be seen.When the hands of the clock in the doorkeeper's office pointed to a quarter-past eight, he began to grow a little anxious. Ruby was late. As a rule she was careful about time where her work was concerned.He waited five minutes more, then stepping inside the passage he knocked at the sliding glass-panel of the doorkeeper's office and asked if Miss Strode had arrived."I'm sure I couldn't say," the man in charge replied. "The doorkeeper's been called away for a moment, but he'll be back directly. All the chorus and extra people are supposed to be booked in by eight-fifteen."As Rupert turned away a girl hurrying along the passage nearly ran into him. As she apologised he recognised Iris Colyer, a friend of Ruby's."Do you know if Miss Strode has arrived yet? I wish you'd find her for me," he said. "I've just come up to town from the country, and I don't suppose I shall have more than twenty-four hours here. I want her to meet me after the performance to-night."He noticed a look of surprise on Miss Colyer's face, and she hesitated a moment before replying. "But don't you know she has gone away? She's been absent about a week now.""Gone away," Rupert echoed blankly."Yes; didn't you know? She was a bit run down. Got a chill or something—at least, she said so! Anyway, she wanted a holiday, poor dear! She's been at it hard for the past twelve months.""Yes—of course, she wanted a holiday," Rupert said mechanically. "Where has she gone?"Miss Colyer shrugged her shoulders. "I haven't the faintest idea. As you ought to know, Mr. Dale, Ruby was never one of the chatty ones, never gabbled about her own affairs or other people's like the rest of the girls." She held out a neatly-gloved hand. "I must rush away; late as usual. I expect you'll hear from Ruby in a day or two. I remember now she talked about the Continent—Paris, I believe. Said she'd send me picture postcards—of course, the little wretch never has.... So long."Iris Colyer disappeared with a nod of her head. Rupert remained standing in the passage, pushed about and buffeted to and fro by stage hands and dressers as they passed in and out, until he recovered himself with an effort and made his way into the street and walked slowly along in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. He found it difficult to believe that Ruby had gone away suddenly without a word to him, without even leaving her address. She had not complained of feeling ill the day they parted. He could not believe she had gone away. A sudden fear struck him that perhaps she was seriously ill.Calling a cab he drove to her flat in Baker Street. He rang the bell three times without receiving an answer, then he went in search of the porter.The man corroborated what Iris Colyer had told him. Miss Strode had gone away for a holiday. He did not know where she had gone, but he remembered her telling the driver of the taxi-cab to take her to Victoria Station. She had left about eight o'clock on the evening of the same day Rupert had started for Devonshire. She had said she would send an address to which letters could be forwarded, but up to the present she had not done so.Rupert was on the point of asking if she had gone alone, then he checked himself, ashamed of the thought. For jealousy had prompted it.He turned away without a word and walked blindly down the street. The contemptible thought which had entered his heart, prompted by a sudden wave of jealousy, was swept away by the return of the dreadful fear which had assailed him several times during the last forty-eight hours, and against which he had so far fought successfully. But now it would not be denied. It brought with it a horrible suspicion.Why had she gone away? he asked himself again and again, still not daring to find the answer which fear prompted. When she had said good-bye to him at his rooms in Westminster she must have known she was going and have made her preparations. Yet she had carefully concealed the fact from him. It was not a case of illness. He would have seen it or she would have told him. He knew she had not tired of her work at the Ingenue. She loved the theatre.Then why had she gone? Why had she suddenly run away from him, from London, from life?She loved him. Nothing could shake his faith in her love. She had proved it. Her love had saved him from taking his own life.Rupert found himself standing just inside the gates of the Marble Arch. The roar of traffic echoed dully in his ears; on his left the lights of Oxford Street glared. Facing him was the darkness of the Park, with here and there the red blot of a gas lamp.She had saved him from the crime of self-destruction. With extraordinary clearness pictures rose before his eyes presenting each incident of the last day they had spent together. They passed before him like the pictures projected by a cinematograph.She had not told him of his good fortune until she had found him seated in the chair with a revolver clasped in his hand. Yet she had known his position perfectly well: she had known that with the defeat of the favourite in the big race ruin faced him. Yet she had said nothing until she found him face to face with death.He put his hands up to his face to shut out the pictures which danced before his eyes. He heard himself laugh.The next moment he was striding through the Park trying to escape from his thoughts and from the fear which now permeated his whole being.At Hyde Park Corner he got on to an omnibus. He wanted to get back to his rooms again. He might find something there, some proof, that these fears were groundless.The first thing he did was to light a fire and switch on all the electric lights. He noticed a vase of faded flowers on the bureau. He was about to throw them into the fire when he hesitated. As far as he could remember there were no flowers in the room when he had left.He rang the bell and told the servant he wished to speak to the landlady. The maid gave him a scared look and said she would ask her to step up.Mrs. Jones entered the room noiselessly, and, closing the door, stood with her back to it. She gave Rupert one glance, then stooped down to pick up an imaginary hairpin from the floor."I've returned rather unexpectedly on business," Rupert said, speaking jerkily."Yes, sir. I hope—there ain't no serious trouble, sir?"Rupert forced a laugh. "Trouble? Why—by the way, are there any letters for me?"Mrs. Jones struggled for her pocket, and after a few moments produced a crumpled envelope which she straightened out and handed to Rupert."Miss Strode left that for you the day she went away, sir. And she put them flowers in that vase on the bureau. I said as how they wouldn't live until you came back. But, there, it was her fancy to have them while you were away, and I was to leave them there."Rupert nodded. He turned the envelope over, broke the seal, then changed his mind, and put it into his pocket."No other letters?" he asked sharply.The landlady looked over the top of his head, and picking up her apron commenced to twist the corners nervously."A gentleman called to see you this afternoon, sir, and not knowing you was returning I told him you had gone away and weren't expected. He said you were probably coming up to London—I didn't take no notice of that. He wouldn't give his name, sir, but he seemed anxious to see you."Rupert guessed it was Sir Reginald Crichton. Turning his back on Mrs. Jones he took out his key intending to open the bureau. To his surprise he found it was unlocked. The landlady continued to twist her apron, watching him surreptitiously."There are no other letters for me?" he repeated."Well, sir," the landlady stammered, "there were some letters—and Miss Strode, after you was gone, I think she paid some bills for you. At least, so I understood her to say. But two gentlemen have been here since you arrived this evening——"She stopped, and again picked up an imaginary hairpin from the floor.Rupert swung round. He waited for her to continue."Of course, I shouldn't have admitted them, sir—but, I couldn't help myself.""What do you mean?"Mrs. Jones hesitated. She was washing her hands in her apron now, and she sniffed suspiciously once or twice as if tears threatened."Speak out—speak plainly, for goodness' sake!" Rupert cried fiercely. "What did these men come for? Who were they?""Scotland Yard, sir. In order to search the rooms." She raised her apron to her eyes and commenced to sob. "Such a thing ain't never happened to me before, sir, never since my poor husband died and I was forced to take in lodgers. I told them what I thought of them, but it weren't no good, sir. They had a warrant, or whatever it's called.... And they took your letters, sir. What right had they to them, I'd like to know.""It's all right, Mrs. Jones," Rupert said quietly. "It's a mistake.""I know that, sir. But it ain't pleasant to have a thing like that happen in one's own house. Police officers they were, sir.... I told them you was a perfectly respectable gentleman.... You'd paid your bills, as they could see——""That will do," Rupert interrupted. "Did they take anything else out of my rooms?"Mrs. Jones wiped her eyes with her apron. "I don't think so, sir. I had a look round after they'd gone. The race card you'd left and which I'd put on the blotting-pad was missing; and they took the blotting-pad, too, the robbers. I'd just filled it up with fresh blotting-paper the very day before you left, as you may remember.""Yes, I remember." Again Rupert laughed. "You needn't worry, Mrs. Jones. It's a mistake and it will be put right to-morrow. That'll do, you can go now."The landlady hesitated, fingering the door-handle. "No one knows but me, sir. Fortunately, I answered the door myself, so my servant, she don't know. People will talk, so——""I quite understand. But there will be nothing to talk about. Good-night.""Good-night, sir. Anything I can do I'm sure——" The door closed on the remainder of the sentence.Rupert waited until her footsteps had died away. He opened the bureau and searched. A few papers were missing, some notes he had made of his examination, and one or two unimportant letters. As far as he could remember that was all, with the exception of the letters which had arrived during his absence and the bills Ruby had paid. It was lucky they had found and taken the race card.He took Ruby's letter from his pocket and opened it:"DARLING,—"In case you return before we meet again, this is just to greet you and to tell you I have paid all the bills I could find, and put a hundred and fifty pounds to your credit in the bank. It is just possible that I may go away for a little holiday, as I have been feeling rather seedy, lately, and the management say that if I give them a doctor's certificate I can take a rest. So don't worry if you return and find me flown. I won't write to Devonshire as you told me it would be better not to. Guard yourself for my sake. I love you better than anything else in the world."Always yours,"RUBY.""P.S. I left some flowers on the bureau. I'm afraid they'll die before you see them, but they are my thoughts, which will always be in this room with you."He looked at the flowers: red roses drooping their heads. Bending down he pressed the letter to his lips. Then slowly and deliberately he tore it up, threw the pieces on to the fire and watched them burn. Drawing a chair forward he sat down and stretched out his hands to the glowing coal. They were icy cold. He was shivering.It was obvious that the police suspected him of having altered Sir Reginald Crichton's cheque. Their suspicions must have been pretty strong. They must have found some evidence in order to obtain a warrant to search his rooms.Perhaps there was a warrant out for his arrest. He smiled grimly. But suddenly the expression on his face changed.If he were arrested and the news reached Devonshire it would break his father's heart, ruin his sister's life.He jumped to his feet, picked up his hat, intending to go out at once and find Sir Reginald. The clock struck the hour—eleven. It was too late to see him now. Besides, he did not know for certain that the police suspected him!They had some letters, the contents of which he did not know. Receipts for the bills Ruby had paid.It was quite possible they might suspect her. He threw his hat aside and examined the bureau again.Why had the police taken the blotting-pad? He could not remember having written any letters on the day of the race. Yet the blotting-pad must have contained evidence of some sort or the police would not have taken it. If the cheque had been altered in his rooms and blotted on that pad——His body broke out into a sweat. He dropped back into the chair and sat gazing into the fire.His suspicions would no longer be stifled. He still fought them, but it was useless. He reasoned with himself, he argued with himself. But the more he reasoned the more firmly did his suspicions take root.Ruby had never backed Ambuscade for him at all. She had told a lie to save his life!And, having saved his life, she had had to find the money which, she told him, they had won, and without which he had confessed he dared not face life.How had she obtained that money?He heard the question answered again and again, but he dared not listen. He put his hands over his ears and rocked himself to and fro in agony.To save him Ruby had sacrificed herself. She could not have known what she was doing. She must have been mad at the time.... As mad as he when he had taken his revolver and placed it over his heart intending self-destruction.Dawn was in the sky before he went to bed. The sun was commencing to rise before he slept. For sleep only came when he had made up his mind what he would do when a few hours later he met Sir Reginald Crichton.CHAPTER VIII.ARRESTED.Rupert awoke with a start. Some one had been knocking loudly at his door. He turned slowly round, then sat upright. The little maid had drawn back the curtains and pulled up the blind with a noisy jerk."It's past nine o'clock, sir. You slept that sound I began to grow scared—though I wouldn't have woke you but for Mrs. Jones—she's got one of her nasty moods on this morning; she says she can't have breakfast kept about the whole morning. Shall I turn the bath water on for you, sir?""Yes, I shan't be five minutes," Rupert replied. "She can start cooking the breakfast at once."Directly the door closed he jumped out of bed, and slipping on his dressing-gown commenced to shave. Every now and then as he lathered his face he stopped and stared at his reflection in the mirror. The action was unconscious, yet, whenever he caught himself doing it he was filled with a vague sense of uneasiness. On his way to the bathroom he glanced at the breakfast-table to see if there were any letters for him. He half expected one from Sir Reginald. But there was only a postcard.As he saw and recognised the writing he picked it up eagerly. It was from Ruby. The postmark was Paris, dated the previous morning. He turned it over, but for a few seconds the writing was blurred by the mist which rose before his eyes. He experienced a sudden, blessed sense of relief. The horror which had haunted him all night went away. He read the address at the top of the card—"Hotel de Tournon." He knew it, a little place in the Latin Quarter patronised by artists and students.Had she been guilty she would never have written to him nor let him know where she was hiding.The postcard meant that she was not hiding, that she had not run away. He knew that she was safe.For the moment nothing else mattered. Not even the danger which threatened him, the possibility of his arrest, the shame it would cast on his father and sister.The maid came into the room carrying the breakfast-tray, so he took the card to the bathroom, and, locking the door, read it there:"I arrived here about a week ago. Thought I'd let you know where I was in case you returned to town; but I'm moving on to-morrow, so if you get this write by return. Tell me how you are and if everything is going on satisfactorily. I'm anxious to know. On hearing, I'll send you my next address."She did not sign her name or her initials.Slowly, the feeling of relief Rupert had experienced faded away. He read the card again as soon as he was seated at the breakfast-table. Her anxiety to know that all was well with him and progressing satisfactorily, caused fear to return. He told himself angrily that he was a fool, he knew his suspicions were groundless. Of course, she would not have written at all, not even on a postcard, if she had been in any way connected with the altered cheque.She would really have run away and hidden where no one could find her.And yet.... When men stole or robbed or murdered or committed any crime, they nearly always did so in the belief that their crime would remain undetected and they would escape. In this case she would be the last person anyone would suspect. No one connected with the affair knew of their friendship or of the relations which existed between them. Neither the Crichtons nor his father had ever heard of her.There was a knock on the sitting-room door, and Rupert started and hastily hid the postcard in his pocket. It was only the landlady to ask if he had everything he required and to take any orders he might have to give her for luncheon or dinner."I shall be out all day," he replied, trying to speak in his normal voice."Will you be staying another night or two, or will you be returning to Devonshire at once, sir?" she asked."I expect I shall go back to-morrow."Even as he spoke he had a curious feeling that he would not return home next day. Some dreadful sub-conscious instinct warned him that he would not return home for a long time.Directly the landlady had gone he looked at the postcard again, then with unsteady hands tore it up and put it into the fire. Under normal conditions, lover-like, he would have kept it.In every little thing he did now he seemed to have some ulterior motive. He found himself criticising every action and every thought.He sipped his tea—it was half cold. He had been seated at the table for ten minutes without realising the flight of time. The bacon lay untouched on his plate. He nibbled a piece of bread, then lay back in his chair staring across the room—at nothing.The clock on the mantelshelf chimed the hour—half-past ten. It was time he started to call on Sir Reginald Crichton. But he did not move. During the night, during the long hours of darkness, he had made up his mind that the woman he loved was guilty of the crime of which obviously he was already suspected. And he had made up his mind what course of action he would pursue.But by the cold, clear light of day he began to reason again, once more to argue with himself.In imagination he saw two figures standing by his side; one on the right, the other on the left. Duty and Love.His duty was to tell the whole truth. To clear himself from any possible shadow of guilt. That was his duty, because his life was not his own any more than his name. Both, in a sense, belonged to his father and sister.And his sister was loved by the son of the man he was suspected of robbing. But Love, on his left hand, told him that at all costs he must shield and save the woman who loved him. If she had done this terrible thing, she had done it on the inspiration of the moment; love and fear had made her do it. She had found him seated in this very room determined to take his life. She had entered at the critical moment. And when she had tried to show him his folly and sin, he had told her, calmly and quietly, that nothing could alter his determination. He had told her he was not only thinking of himself, but of his father and Marjorie.And that was why she had done this thing ... To save him and those he loved. She had not considered herself at all. It was not just because she loved him and wanted to keep him. He remembered everything she had said to him and he had said to her in this little room a week ago.He put his hands up to his face. They were wet and clammy now.Love and Duty.He heard the front door bell ring. He started to his feet, his nerve had gone. Again the clock chimed the hour—eleven. Sir Reginald Crichton would be waiting for him.He turned towards the bedroom, then stopped. There was a hurried knock on the door and the landlady entered. He noticed that her face looked white, her large, coarse hands were clasped together."There are two—two gentlemen to see you, sir. I didn't know what to say. I told them to wait while I saw if you was at home or not."Rupert pulled himself together. He looked at Mrs. Jones and smiled. "I haven't finished my breakfast yet. Tell them to come up."As he spoke the men entered the room. Rupert looked at them, and he knew who they were and why they had come.There was a moment's silence. He glanced at Mrs. Jones and smiled again."You can go."Very slowly she stepped back."I hope nothing's wrong," she stammered. "I'm sure the young gentleman's done nothing—nothing to be ashamed of——""That's all right, Mrs. Jones.... Shut the door, please."He sat down again and sipped some tea. Then he told the men to be seated. One stepped forward. From the breast-pocket of his tunic he took out a slip of paper and unfolded it."You are Rupert Allen Dale?""Yes. You have a warrant——" He checked himself.The man said something else which he did not hear. There was a buzzing in his ears. The imaginary figures on either side of his chair had grown to an enormous size. They seemed to be hemming him in. He felt stifled.Now the man was reading. Reading the warrant for Rupert Allen Dale's arrest. He caught words here and there."That's all right," he said when the officer had finished. "But it's a mistake. I'm not guilty."Again the man repeated automatically the official warning. Rupert glanced round the room. His eyes stopped at the vase of faded flowers, the red roses which Ruby had left for him.... Her thoughts, which she said would always be with him, surrounding him—in the little room where they had first known one another; known and loved one another.Again a mist rose before his eyes. He set his teeth, telling himself that he must play the man.For he had made up his mind what he was going to do, and there was nothing for it now but to do it. To do what he felt was right. Or, right or wrong, to do what heart and head prompted."Do you mind if I finish my breakfast?" he said steadily.The officer glanced at his watch. "I can give you five minutes."Rupert made a pretence of eating. He managed to swallow a little food. He felt he wanted to remain in this room just a few minutes more. Just a common lodging-house room, that was all, but it seemed now as if the greater part of his life had been passed here.Here he had worked; here he had really lived, learnt just a little of the meaning of life. Here love had come to him for the first time. It was just as much or even more his home than Blackthorn Farm had been. He swept it with his eyes. But he did not see the common cloth nor the lodging-house breakfast service, the framed text on the wall "Home, Sweet Home," the cheap etching of one of Landseer's pictures, or the coloured print from the Christmas number of theIllustrated London News. He did not see the hideous wallpaper with its green and gold pattern which had long irritated him, nor the well-worn Early-Victorian furniture. He only saw the Ghost of the Things that Had Been. The photograph of Ruby on the bureau, the vase of dead roses, and through the windows one of the turrets of Westminster Abbey.The officer cleared his throat. "I'm afraid——"Rupert rose instantly. "Will you call a cab?"Then, to his own surprise, as much as to the surprise of the two men waiting, he laughed. For, suddenly, the vision of an old four-wheeled cab, a policeman on the box next the driver, and inside a man sitting very close to a plain-clothes officer, rose before his eyes. He had seen this four-wheeled cab and its occupants on Westminster Bridge the day he and Ruby went to the races.And they had both laughed then at some foolish joke he had made.And so he laughed again now. "Get a taxi-cab, if you can," he said.He put on his hat and coat, drew on a pair of gloves. Then, not out of bravado, but prompted by a sentimental whim, perhaps, he drew one of the roses from the vase and placed it in his button-hole."I'm ready," he said. "I don't suppose you'll want to—to handcuff me?"The officer put his hand on his arm. "I don't think it will be necessary, sir."They walked downstairs together side by side.CHAPTER IX.A PROPOSAL.The news of his son's arrest did not reach John Dale at once. Though Rupert could have written or wired to him he naturally refrained from doing so. The longer his father and sister remained in ignorance of the crime of which he was accused, the better!Bad news spreads quickly enough, and he wanted Ruby to remain in ignorance, too. It was fortunate he had burnt her postcard as quickly as he did. He had not answered it, and unless she wrote again when she left Paris he would not know her address.It was from the lips of Sir Reginald Crichton's son that John Dale eventually learnt of Rupert's arrest. In Crichton's mind there was little doubt but that Rupert was guilty of altering the cheque, and he pitied the proud old farmer from the bottom of his heart.For Sir Reginald also had an only son, one in whom all his hopes were centred; he could enter into John Dale's feelings and he knew how this blow would strike him. So he wrote to his son Jim, who was, fortunately, at Post Bridge Hall on leave, and asked him to break the news as best he could. Though father and son had no secrets from one another, Jim had not yet told his father of his love for Marjorie Dale. He himself knew there were many reasons against a definite announcement of their engagement. He was still young; needless to say, he could not live on his pay, and though his father made him an allowance it barely covered his expenses. Flying was an expensive game, and, like all men attached to the Royal Flying Corps, Jim's energy and keenness knew no bounds. He was always experimenting, trying new engines, building new machines—giving the benefit of his experience to his corps and to his country.And there was Marjorie's side of the question and her point of view to be considered. Being both so young, having both been brought up in natural healthy surroundings, it was impossible for them to hide their feelings from one another, and before he was aware of it, Jim had confessed his love and read a corresponding confession in Marjorie's eyes.It was not until afterwards, when quietly and soberly he thought out their position and considered the question of their marriage, that he realised love was all in all to a woman, but to him, while he had his profession, it would only be part of his life. And that at present his life was not his own. Not only did it belong to his country, but he risked it almost daily. For that reason alone he felt he could not tie Marjorie down to a formal engagement.Sir Reginald Crichton little knew the effect his letter, telling his son all about the altered cheque and Rupert Dale's arrest, would have on him. Had he guessed he might not have written it.He asked him to break the news to poor old John Dale, to tell him that he, Sir Reginald, was seeing his son had the best legal advice that could be obtained, and to advise Dale to come up to London immediately.It was with a heavy heart that Jim Crichton walked over to Blackthorn Farm early in the morning after he received Sir Reginald's letter. It was not an easy or a pleasant job to tell another man's father that his only son had been arrested on a criminal charge. He was rather annoyed with his father for not writing direct to Dale. For, after all, he could only blurt the news out in a way that might hurt more than if it had been conveyed by letter.Youth must always be a little egotistical and a little selfish, and what troubled Jim most of all was the shock the news would give to the woman he loved—and the effect it might have on their love and their future life.If Rupert Dale were guilty! Jim Crichton was a soldier, and so could not help being a little conventional and having more respect sometimes for the opinion of others than his own opinion. He had to consider what the world thought and said. He knew he would have to consider his own position as well as his father's. And he knew as he walked along the banks of the purling Dart in which Rupert and he had often fished together as boys, that before seeing Marjorie and telling her, he would have to make up his mind as to the position he would take up in this wretched affair—if her brother were found guilty. He knew it meant that the Dales would be ruined, probably financially as well as socially.In the West country a social sin is never forgiven, never forgotten. They would have to leave Devonshire and go far away. And he might never see Marjorie again.He halted, sat down on a giant boulder, and looked across the bleak moorland to Blackthorn Farm not a quarter of a mile away. At that moment he realised for the first time how deeply he loved Marjorie Dale.Better than anyone else in the world; more than anyone else in the world. She even came before his profession.It was with a shock he discovered this. But he had to confess it to himself.He could not give her up. Not even though her brother were convicted of being a criminal and sent to prison.It was a glorious summer day. The sun was rising in a cloudless blue sky. A gentle wind brought the scent of gorse. Here and there streaks of purple showed in red heather where it had burst into bloom. Now and then a trout leapt with a noisy splash in the pool at his feet.A long time James Crichton sat on the granite boulder lost in thought, trying to look at the thing from every point of view, arguing and reasoning with himself. No matter what happened, he could not give up Marjorie. If he had only considered his own feelings, it might have been possible, even though it meant a broken heart. But she loved him. He belonged to her; she looked to him for her future life and happiness. She had done no wrong. Why should she, he asked himself, suffer for her brother's sin?He could save her, even though it meant humbling himself, even though it meant giving up the profession he loved.He knew the decision to which he had come would hurt his father terribly; but if it came to a choice between him and Marjorie, he knew he should choose the woman who was destined to be his mate; the girl, the whole of whose life lay before her, rather than the man, his own father whose life had been lived.It was a terrible choice, perhaps a strange one. But Jim instinctively felt he was right.So deep was his reverie that he did not hear a light step on the grassy ground. A hand was laid on his shoulder and he started, looked up, and found Marjorie smiling into his face."My dear!" he cried, jumping to his feet. "My dearest!"He took her in his arms with a passion she had never felt before and held her so fiercely that she would have cried out with the pain had she not loved him as she did."Jim.... You frightened me—and I thought to frighten you," she panted when he released her. "You don't know how strong you are." She glanced at him, her cheeks scarlet, the love and dawn of passion swimming in her eyes. She wore no hat and her hair shone in the golden sunshine. Her neck and arms were bare, and her short, workman-like skirt showed her tiny, well-bred ankles and long, narrow feet. Jim looked at her silently, hungrily.Slowly her colour fled and she came close to him again, holding out her hands. "Is anything wrong?"Without replying he put his arm around her and led her away towards Blackthorn Farm.Some one lounging on Post Bridge might see them. A labourer in the fields, or a farmer on the hills, who would carry the news back to his cottage at night that he had seen the young master of Post Bridge Hall making love to old John Dale's daughter. But he did not care—now. Every one should soon know that they loved and that Marjorie was to be his affianced wife.He told her as gently as he could what had happened. Of course, he made as light of it as possible, assuring her that Rupert would be released and the affair cleared up satisfactorily."That's why the guv'nor wrote to me instead of your father and asked me to tell him and see him off to London. He was afraid if he wrote Mr. Dale would put the worst construction possible on the affair. It's quite a common thing for a man to be arrested by mistake on some scraps of evidence the police get hold of.... Don't you worry, Marjorie. You've got to leave all the worrying to me in future."She tried to smile and press his hand, but the happiness had left her eyes and her face was very pale now. "I'm frightened," she whispered. "I can't help it, Jim—if father goes to London I must go with him."But James Crichton shook his head. "That's just what you mustn't do. That friend of Rupert's I saw the other day will see him safely up to town. Despard was his name, wasn't it? I suppose he's still here?"Marjorie nodded. "Yes. He and Rupert had made some discovery in the old tin-mine. They were awfully excited about it." She tried to laugh. "They were going to find radium and make a fortune, I believe. I heard them say something about it.... Oh, Jim, we were so happy and everything seemed to be turning out so well. And now this has happened. Rupert—it can't be true. Of course, I know it isn't true. It will kill father."Jim forced himself to laugh. "My dear, we shall have him back here within a week. You mustn't think anything more about it. There's something else I want to tell you. I'm going to announce our engagement—at once."She looked at him with unbelieving eyes, almost as if she could not understand. Then she shook her head."Not now, Jim. We must wait until—until Rupert's free; this charge against him disproved."He shook his head, and, stopping, held her in his arms again. "Darling, if by any chance the worst should happen, it would make no difference to our love! Nothing would force me to give you up. That's why I'm going to announce our engagement now. Now, while this thing is hanging over our heads."Again she would have protested, but he silenced her. "I've made up my mind, nothing can change it."Holding her hand he led her forward and opened the gate that led into the farmhouse garden. As they entered they saw Despard lounging in a chair on the lawn reading the morning newspaper, a pipe between his lips. He glanced up as they entered, smiled at Marjorie, and without taking the pipe from his lips, or rising, gave Jim Crichton a curt nod."Bounder!" was the latter's silent ejaculation. But he saw old John Dale standing in the doorway, so, giving Marjorie's hand a gentle pressure, he left her.Telling Mr. Dale he had something to say to him in private he entered the dining-room."You bring me bad news of my son," Dale said quietly. "I know it.""How did you?" Jim asked, off his guard. "Surely it hasn't got into the local papers."Dale stepped forward instantly, then, gripping the back of his chair, sat down. "So, it's true," he said in a broken voice. "It's true." He gave a mirthless laugh. Jim tried to speak, but the words refused to come. He would have done anything to spare the father of the girl he loved. He would have borrowed the money from his father, hushed the affair up, and repaid the bank. He would have done anything."It's true he has been arrested," Jim said after he had given the old man time to recover himself. "But I'm quite sure he will be able to prove his innocence. I know my father thinks so, too. Indeed, he himself is employing the best legal advice he can obtain, and will see he is given every chance of defending himself. We want you to come up to town, if you will, sir, and, if possible, to catch the train to-day." He glanced at the grandfather clock in a corner of the room. "There is one that leaves Newton Abbot about two-thirty, I think. I can motor you in. I am sure Mr. Despard will accompany you."John Dale shook his head slowly to and fro. "Yes, I must go up. I must see him," he whispered. He rose to his feet and held out his hand. "You're too good, Mr. James. I'm afraid—I'm afraid——""You needn't be," Jim interrupted quickly. "Rupert's innocent, I'll swear. Anyway, we'll see to him and see that justice is done.""Yes; that's so. Justice must be done at all costs." John Dale raised his head and looked proudly at Sir Reginald Crichton's son.The latter took his hand and shook it warmly. "Then I'll be round with the motor in about an hour's time. Perhaps you'll warn Mr. Despard that you want him to go with you. Anyway, under the circumstances, he could not be left here alone with your daughter, could he?"He walked to the door, then stopped. "There's something else I would like to say, sir, though it may not seem quite the moment. I love your daughter Marjorie: I hope to make her my wife. With your permission I should like to announce our engagement at once."It was a long time before Dale replied. "That's impossible now. But I thank you, Mr. Crichton.... It is just the sort of thing I—I would have expected—from Sir Reginald's son."The old man broke down then, and Jim saw tears coursing down the lined and furrowed cheeks. He bit his lip. "It is not impossible, sir. I want to announce the engagement now; now, at this moment, while this charge is hanging over your son's head. Do you think a thing like that would make any difference to my love for your daughter? It's at this moment she wants my love and the protection of my name. And she shall have it."Without waiting for a reply he opened the door. Dale stopped him."I ought to tell you," he said unsteadily, "that last night Mr. Despard, Rupert's friend, made the same request—told me he loved Marjorie and asked for her hand.""What did you say?""Of course, I refused," Dale replied. "Why, they've only known each other a few days. But, putting that aside, I'm afraid I dislike and distrust the man. I feel he's one of the men who has led my son into bad ways."He bent over the table and bowed his head between his hands. Again there was a long silence."You have no objection to me as a son-in-law, Mr. Dale?""Surely that question needs no answer—but, please say no more now. Leave me, Mr. James."Quietly closing the door behind him Jim walked out of the house into the garden. Taking no notice of Mr. Despard, he drew Marjorie aside and told her what had happened."I am driving your father—and Mr. Despard—to Newton Abbot in about an hour's time. When I come back we'll have a little run in the car—tea together at Moretonhampstead, perhaps. Or, better still, we'll go over to Hey Tor and have a picnic on our own. Cheer up, darling, all will be well, I know."Bending down, he kissed her in full view of Robert Despard. The latter scrunched theWestern Morning Newsup between his hands with an oath.Waving a farewell to Marjorie, Jim swung through the gate and hurried across the moorlands towards Post Bridge Hall.An hour later he was driving both John Dale and Mr. Robert Despard to Newton Abbot junction. And he could not help feeling some satisfaction when the train carried the latter gentleman away from Devonshire back to London.
CHAPTER VII.
THE VISITORS.
It was dark before the West of England express pulled into Paddington Station. Rupert alighted, carrying a suit-case in his hand. He avoided the temptation of taking a taxi-cab, but walked to the underground railway and took a train to Westminster. He was turning over a new leaf, and, though for the moment he had plenty of money, he had made up his mind henceforth not to spend a penny more than was necessary.
He had not warned his landlady that he was coming, so he found that she was out and that nothing was ready for him. His rooms looked dusty and uncared-for, the blinds were drawn, the atmosphere was cold and cheerless.
The servant suggested lighting the fire, but Rupert shook his head. He was going to do without luxuries of any sort. The first thing he did was to write a letter to Sir Reginald at the Imperial Hotel, telling him of his arrival and saying he was at his service during the whole of the next day. Then, after unpacking his suit-case and changing his clothes, he went out and had dinner at a humble restaurant. He would have telephoned to Ruby, but there was not much time, and, again, it would have meant added expense.
It was curious and irritating how important money had suddenly become. It seemed to check him at every turn—though there was gold in his purse and a balance at his bank. A week or two ago when he had been really broke, it scarcely troubled him. Not as it troubled him now.
For the first time in his life he realised its importance. And his father's words continually echoed in his ears.
At eight o'clock he went to the Ingenue Theatre and waited at the stage door for Ruby Strode to arrive. She generally put in an appearance between eight and eight-fifteen. Every minute cabs and motor-cars drew up and members of the company got out and passed through the narrow entrance to the back of the theatre. Some of the girls he recognised, but he kept out of the way, as he did not wish to be seen.
When the hands of the clock in the doorkeeper's office pointed to a quarter-past eight, he began to grow a little anxious. Ruby was late. As a rule she was careful about time where her work was concerned.
He waited five minutes more, then stepping inside the passage he knocked at the sliding glass-panel of the doorkeeper's office and asked if Miss Strode had arrived.
"I'm sure I couldn't say," the man in charge replied. "The doorkeeper's been called away for a moment, but he'll be back directly. All the chorus and extra people are supposed to be booked in by eight-fifteen."
As Rupert turned away a girl hurrying along the passage nearly ran into him. As she apologised he recognised Iris Colyer, a friend of Ruby's.
"Do you know if Miss Strode has arrived yet? I wish you'd find her for me," he said. "I've just come up to town from the country, and I don't suppose I shall have more than twenty-four hours here. I want her to meet me after the performance to-night."
He noticed a look of surprise on Miss Colyer's face, and she hesitated a moment before replying. "But don't you know she has gone away? She's been absent about a week now."
"Gone away," Rupert echoed blankly.
"Yes; didn't you know? She was a bit run down. Got a chill or something—at least, she said so! Anyway, she wanted a holiday, poor dear! She's been at it hard for the past twelve months."
"Yes—of course, she wanted a holiday," Rupert said mechanically. "Where has she gone?"
Miss Colyer shrugged her shoulders. "I haven't the faintest idea. As you ought to know, Mr. Dale, Ruby was never one of the chatty ones, never gabbled about her own affairs or other people's like the rest of the girls." She held out a neatly-gloved hand. "I must rush away; late as usual. I expect you'll hear from Ruby in a day or two. I remember now she talked about the Continent—Paris, I believe. Said she'd send me picture postcards—of course, the little wretch never has.... So long."
Iris Colyer disappeared with a nod of her head. Rupert remained standing in the passage, pushed about and buffeted to and fro by stage hands and dressers as they passed in and out, until he recovered himself with an effort and made his way into the street and walked slowly along in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. He found it difficult to believe that Ruby had gone away suddenly without a word to him, without even leaving her address. She had not complained of feeling ill the day they parted. He could not believe she had gone away. A sudden fear struck him that perhaps she was seriously ill.
Calling a cab he drove to her flat in Baker Street. He rang the bell three times without receiving an answer, then he went in search of the porter.
The man corroborated what Iris Colyer had told him. Miss Strode had gone away for a holiday. He did not know where she had gone, but he remembered her telling the driver of the taxi-cab to take her to Victoria Station. She had left about eight o'clock on the evening of the same day Rupert had started for Devonshire. She had said she would send an address to which letters could be forwarded, but up to the present she had not done so.
Rupert was on the point of asking if she had gone alone, then he checked himself, ashamed of the thought. For jealousy had prompted it.
He turned away without a word and walked blindly down the street. The contemptible thought which had entered his heart, prompted by a sudden wave of jealousy, was swept away by the return of the dreadful fear which had assailed him several times during the last forty-eight hours, and against which he had so far fought successfully. But now it would not be denied. It brought with it a horrible suspicion.
Why had she gone away? he asked himself again and again, still not daring to find the answer which fear prompted. When she had said good-bye to him at his rooms in Westminster she must have known she was going and have made her preparations. Yet she had carefully concealed the fact from him. It was not a case of illness. He would have seen it or she would have told him. He knew she had not tired of her work at the Ingenue. She loved the theatre.
Then why had she gone? Why had she suddenly run away from him, from London, from life?
She loved him. Nothing could shake his faith in her love. She had proved it. Her love had saved him from taking his own life.
Rupert found himself standing just inside the gates of the Marble Arch. The roar of traffic echoed dully in his ears; on his left the lights of Oxford Street glared. Facing him was the darkness of the Park, with here and there the red blot of a gas lamp.
She had saved him from the crime of self-destruction. With extraordinary clearness pictures rose before his eyes presenting each incident of the last day they had spent together. They passed before him like the pictures projected by a cinematograph.
She had not told him of his good fortune until she had found him seated in the chair with a revolver clasped in his hand. Yet she had known his position perfectly well: she had known that with the defeat of the favourite in the big race ruin faced him. Yet she had said nothing until she found him face to face with death.
He put his hands up to his face to shut out the pictures which danced before his eyes. He heard himself laugh.
The next moment he was striding through the Park trying to escape from his thoughts and from the fear which now permeated his whole being.
At Hyde Park Corner he got on to an omnibus. He wanted to get back to his rooms again. He might find something there, some proof, that these fears were groundless.
The first thing he did was to light a fire and switch on all the electric lights. He noticed a vase of faded flowers on the bureau. He was about to throw them into the fire when he hesitated. As far as he could remember there were no flowers in the room when he had left.
He rang the bell and told the servant he wished to speak to the landlady. The maid gave him a scared look and said she would ask her to step up.
Mrs. Jones entered the room noiselessly, and, closing the door, stood with her back to it. She gave Rupert one glance, then stooped down to pick up an imaginary hairpin from the floor.
"I've returned rather unexpectedly on business," Rupert said, speaking jerkily.
"Yes, sir. I hope—there ain't no serious trouble, sir?"
Rupert forced a laugh. "Trouble? Why—by the way, are there any letters for me?"
Mrs. Jones struggled for her pocket, and after a few moments produced a crumpled envelope which she straightened out and handed to Rupert.
"Miss Strode left that for you the day she went away, sir. And she put them flowers in that vase on the bureau. I said as how they wouldn't live until you came back. But, there, it was her fancy to have them while you were away, and I was to leave them there."
Rupert nodded. He turned the envelope over, broke the seal, then changed his mind, and put it into his pocket.
"No other letters?" he asked sharply.
The landlady looked over the top of his head, and picking up her apron commenced to twist the corners nervously.
"A gentleman called to see you this afternoon, sir, and not knowing you was returning I told him you had gone away and weren't expected. He said you were probably coming up to London—I didn't take no notice of that. He wouldn't give his name, sir, but he seemed anxious to see you."
Rupert guessed it was Sir Reginald Crichton. Turning his back on Mrs. Jones he took out his key intending to open the bureau. To his surprise he found it was unlocked. The landlady continued to twist her apron, watching him surreptitiously.
"There are no other letters for me?" he repeated.
"Well, sir," the landlady stammered, "there were some letters—and Miss Strode, after you was gone, I think she paid some bills for you. At least, so I understood her to say. But two gentlemen have been here since you arrived this evening——"
She stopped, and again picked up an imaginary hairpin from the floor.
Rupert swung round. He waited for her to continue.
"Of course, I shouldn't have admitted them, sir—but, I couldn't help myself."
"What do you mean?"
Mrs. Jones hesitated. She was washing her hands in her apron now, and she sniffed suspiciously once or twice as if tears threatened.
"Speak out—speak plainly, for goodness' sake!" Rupert cried fiercely. "What did these men come for? Who were they?"
"Scotland Yard, sir. In order to search the rooms." She raised her apron to her eyes and commenced to sob. "Such a thing ain't never happened to me before, sir, never since my poor husband died and I was forced to take in lodgers. I told them what I thought of them, but it weren't no good, sir. They had a warrant, or whatever it's called.... And they took your letters, sir. What right had they to them, I'd like to know."
"It's all right, Mrs. Jones," Rupert said quietly. "It's a mistake."
"I know that, sir. But it ain't pleasant to have a thing like that happen in one's own house. Police officers they were, sir.... I told them you was a perfectly respectable gentleman.... You'd paid your bills, as they could see——"
"That will do," Rupert interrupted. "Did they take anything else out of my rooms?"
Mrs. Jones wiped her eyes with her apron. "I don't think so, sir. I had a look round after they'd gone. The race card you'd left and which I'd put on the blotting-pad was missing; and they took the blotting-pad, too, the robbers. I'd just filled it up with fresh blotting-paper the very day before you left, as you may remember."
"Yes, I remember." Again Rupert laughed. "You needn't worry, Mrs. Jones. It's a mistake and it will be put right to-morrow. That'll do, you can go now."
The landlady hesitated, fingering the door-handle. "No one knows but me, sir. Fortunately, I answered the door myself, so my servant, she don't know. People will talk, so——"
"I quite understand. But there will be nothing to talk about. Good-night."
"Good-night, sir. Anything I can do I'm sure——" The door closed on the remainder of the sentence.
Rupert waited until her footsteps had died away. He opened the bureau and searched. A few papers were missing, some notes he had made of his examination, and one or two unimportant letters. As far as he could remember that was all, with the exception of the letters which had arrived during his absence and the bills Ruby had paid. It was lucky they had found and taken the race card.
He took Ruby's letter from his pocket and opened it:
"DARLING,—
"In case you return before we meet again, this is just to greet you and to tell you I have paid all the bills I could find, and put a hundred and fifty pounds to your credit in the bank. It is just possible that I may go away for a little holiday, as I have been feeling rather seedy, lately, and the management say that if I give them a doctor's certificate I can take a rest. So don't worry if you return and find me flown. I won't write to Devonshire as you told me it would be better not to. Guard yourself for my sake. I love you better than anything else in the world.
"RUBY."
"P.S. I left some flowers on the bureau. I'm afraid they'll die before you see them, but they are my thoughts, which will always be in this room with you."
He looked at the flowers: red roses drooping their heads. Bending down he pressed the letter to his lips. Then slowly and deliberately he tore it up, threw the pieces on to the fire and watched them burn. Drawing a chair forward he sat down and stretched out his hands to the glowing coal. They were icy cold. He was shivering.
It was obvious that the police suspected him of having altered Sir Reginald Crichton's cheque. Their suspicions must have been pretty strong. They must have found some evidence in order to obtain a warrant to search his rooms.
Perhaps there was a warrant out for his arrest. He smiled grimly. But suddenly the expression on his face changed.
If he were arrested and the news reached Devonshire it would break his father's heart, ruin his sister's life.
He jumped to his feet, picked up his hat, intending to go out at once and find Sir Reginald. The clock struck the hour—eleven. It was too late to see him now. Besides, he did not know for certain that the police suspected him!
They had some letters, the contents of which he did not know. Receipts for the bills Ruby had paid.
It was quite possible they might suspect her. He threw his hat aside and examined the bureau again.
Why had the police taken the blotting-pad? He could not remember having written any letters on the day of the race. Yet the blotting-pad must have contained evidence of some sort or the police would not have taken it. If the cheque had been altered in his rooms and blotted on that pad——
His body broke out into a sweat. He dropped back into the chair and sat gazing into the fire.
His suspicions would no longer be stifled. He still fought them, but it was useless. He reasoned with himself, he argued with himself. But the more he reasoned the more firmly did his suspicions take root.
Ruby had never backed Ambuscade for him at all. She had told a lie to save his life!
And, having saved his life, she had had to find the money which, she told him, they had won, and without which he had confessed he dared not face life.
How had she obtained that money?
He heard the question answered again and again, but he dared not listen. He put his hands over his ears and rocked himself to and fro in agony.
To save him Ruby had sacrificed herself. She could not have known what she was doing. She must have been mad at the time.... As mad as he when he had taken his revolver and placed it over his heart intending self-destruction.
Dawn was in the sky before he went to bed. The sun was commencing to rise before he slept. For sleep only came when he had made up his mind what he would do when a few hours later he met Sir Reginald Crichton.
CHAPTER VIII.
ARRESTED.
Rupert awoke with a start. Some one had been knocking loudly at his door. He turned slowly round, then sat upright. The little maid had drawn back the curtains and pulled up the blind with a noisy jerk.
"It's past nine o'clock, sir. You slept that sound I began to grow scared—though I wouldn't have woke you but for Mrs. Jones—she's got one of her nasty moods on this morning; she says she can't have breakfast kept about the whole morning. Shall I turn the bath water on for you, sir?"
"Yes, I shan't be five minutes," Rupert replied. "She can start cooking the breakfast at once."
Directly the door closed he jumped out of bed, and slipping on his dressing-gown commenced to shave. Every now and then as he lathered his face he stopped and stared at his reflection in the mirror. The action was unconscious, yet, whenever he caught himself doing it he was filled with a vague sense of uneasiness. On his way to the bathroom he glanced at the breakfast-table to see if there were any letters for him. He half expected one from Sir Reginald. But there was only a postcard.
As he saw and recognised the writing he picked it up eagerly. It was from Ruby. The postmark was Paris, dated the previous morning. He turned it over, but for a few seconds the writing was blurred by the mist which rose before his eyes. He experienced a sudden, blessed sense of relief. The horror which had haunted him all night went away. He read the address at the top of the card—"Hotel de Tournon." He knew it, a little place in the Latin Quarter patronised by artists and students.
Had she been guilty she would never have written to him nor let him know where she was hiding.
The postcard meant that she was not hiding, that she had not run away. He knew that she was safe.
For the moment nothing else mattered. Not even the danger which threatened him, the possibility of his arrest, the shame it would cast on his father and sister.
The maid came into the room carrying the breakfast-tray, so he took the card to the bathroom, and, locking the door, read it there:
"I arrived here about a week ago. Thought I'd let you know where I was in case you returned to town; but I'm moving on to-morrow, so if you get this write by return. Tell me how you are and if everything is going on satisfactorily. I'm anxious to know. On hearing, I'll send you my next address."
She did not sign her name or her initials.
Slowly, the feeling of relief Rupert had experienced faded away. He read the card again as soon as he was seated at the breakfast-table. Her anxiety to know that all was well with him and progressing satisfactorily, caused fear to return. He told himself angrily that he was a fool, he knew his suspicions were groundless. Of course, she would not have written at all, not even on a postcard, if she had been in any way connected with the altered cheque.
She would really have run away and hidden where no one could find her.
And yet.... When men stole or robbed or murdered or committed any crime, they nearly always did so in the belief that their crime would remain undetected and they would escape. In this case she would be the last person anyone would suspect. No one connected with the affair knew of their friendship or of the relations which existed between them. Neither the Crichtons nor his father had ever heard of her.
There was a knock on the sitting-room door, and Rupert started and hastily hid the postcard in his pocket. It was only the landlady to ask if he had everything he required and to take any orders he might have to give her for luncheon or dinner.
"I shall be out all day," he replied, trying to speak in his normal voice.
"Will you be staying another night or two, or will you be returning to Devonshire at once, sir?" she asked.
"I expect I shall go back to-morrow."
Even as he spoke he had a curious feeling that he would not return home next day. Some dreadful sub-conscious instinct warned him that he would not return home for a long time.
Directly the landlady had gone he looked at the postcard again, then with unsteady hands tore it up and put it into the fire. Under normal conditions, lover-like, he would have kept it.
In every little thing he did now he seemed to have some ulterior motive. He found himself criticising every action and every thought.
He sipped his tea—it was half cold. He had been seated at the table for ten minutes without realising the flight of time. The bacon lay untouched on his plate. He nibbled a piece of bread, then lay back in his chair staring across the room—at nothing.
The clock on the mantelshelf chimed the hour—half-past ten. It was time he started to call on Sir Reginald Crichton. But he did not move. During the night, during the long hours of darkness, he had made up his mind that the woman he loved was guilty of the crime of which obviously he was already suspected. And he had made up his mind what course of action he would pursue.
But by the cold, clear light of day he began to reason again, once more to argue with himself.
In imagination he saw two figures standing by his side; one on the right, the other on the left. Duty and Love.
His duty was to tell the whole truth. To clear himself from any possible shadow of guilt. That was his duty, because his life was not his own any more than his name. Both, in a sense, belonged to his father and sister.
And his sister was loved by the son of the man he was suspected of robbing. But Love, on his left hand, told him that at all costs he must shield and save the woman who loved him. If she had done this terrible thing, she had done it on the inspiration of the moment; love and fear had made her do it. She had found him seated in this very room determined to take his life. She had entered at the critical moment. And when she had tried to show him his folly and sin, he had told her, calmly and quietly, that nothing could alter his determination. He had told her he was not only thinking of himself, but of his father and Marjorie.
And that was why she had done this thing ... To save him and those he loved. She had not considered herself at all. It was not just because she loved him and wanted to keep him. He remembered everything she had said to him and he had said to her in this little room a week ago.
He put his hands up to his face. They were wet and clammy now.
Love and Duty.
He heard the front door bell ring. He started to his feet, his nerve had gone. Again the clock chimed the hour—eleven. Sir Reginald Crichton would be waiting for him.
He turned towards the bedroom, then stopped. There was a hurried knock on the door and the landlady entered. He noticed that her face looked white, her large, coarse hands were clasped together.
"There are two—two gentlemen to see you, sir. I didn't know what to say. I told them to wait while I saw if you was at home or not."
Rupert pulled himself together. He looked at Mrs. Jones and smiled. "I haven't finished my breakfast yet. Tell them to come up."
As he spoke the men entered the room. Rupert looked at them, and he knew who they were and why they had come.
There was a moment's silence. He glanced at Mrs. Jones and smiled again.
"You can go."
Very slowly she stepped back.
"I hope nothing's wrong," she stammered. "I'm sure the young gentleman's done nothing—nothing to be ashamed of——"
"That's all right, Mrs. Jones.... Shut the door, please."
He sat down again and sipped some tea. Then he told the men to be seated. One stepped forward. From the breast-pocket of his tunic he took out a slip of paper and unfolded it.
"You are Rupert Allen Dale?"
"Yes. You have a warrant——" He checked himself.
The man said something else which he did not hear. There was a buzzing in his ears. The imaginary figures on either side of his chair had grown to an enormous size. They seemed to be hemming him in. He felt stifled.
Now the man was reading. Reading the warrant for Rupert Allen Dale's arrest. He caught words here and there.
"That's all right," he said when the officer had finished. "But it's a mistake. I'm not guilty."
Again the man repeated automatically the official warning. Rupert glanced round the room. His eyes stopped at the vase of faded flowers, the red roses which Ruby had left for him.... Her thoughts, which she said would always be with him, surrounding him—in the little room where they had first known one another; known and loved one another.
Again a mist rose before his eyes. He set his teeth, telling himself that he must play the man.
For he had made up his mind what he was going to do, and there was nothing for it now but to do it. To do what he felt was right. Or, right or wrong, to do what heart and head prompted.
"Do you mind if I finish my breakfast?" he said steadily.
The officer glanced at his watch. "I can give you five minutes."
Rupert made a pretence of eating. He managed to swallow a little food. He felt he wanted to remain in this room just a few minutes more. Just a common lodging-house room, that was all, but it seemed now as if the greater part of his life had been passed here.
Here he had worked; here he had really lived, learnt just a little of the meaning of life. Here love had come to him for the first time. It was just as much or even more his home than Blackthorn Farm had been. He swept it with his eyes. But he did not see the common cloth nor the lodging-house breakfast service, the framed text on the wall "Home, Sweet Home," the cheap etching of one of Landseer's pictures, or the coloured print from the Christmas number of theIllustrated London News. He did not see the hideous wallpaper with its green and gold pattern which had long irritated him, nor the well-worn Early-Victorian furniture. He only saw the Ghost of the Things that Had Been. The photograph of Ruby on the bureau, the vase of dead roses, and through the windows one of the turrets of Westminster Abbey.
The officer cleared his throat. "I'm afraid——"
Rupert rose instantly. "Will you call a cab?"
Then, to his own surprise, as much as to the surprise of the two men waiting, he laughed. For, suddenly, the vision of an old four-wheeled cab, a policeman on the box next the driver, and inside a man sitting very close to a plain-clothes officer, rose before his eyes. He had seen this four-wheeled cab and its occupants on Westminster Bridge the day he and Ruby went to the races.
And they had both laughed then at some foolish joke he had made.
And so he laughed again now. "Get a taxi-cab, if you can," he said.
He put on his hat and coat, drew on a pair of gloves. Then, not out of bravado, but prompted by a sentimental whim, perhaps, he drew one of the roses from the vase and placed it in his button-hole.
"I'm ready," he said. "I don't suppose you'll want to—to handcuff me?"
The officer put his hand on his arm. "I don't think it will be necessary, sir."
They walked downstairs together side by side.
CHAPTER IX.
A PROPOSAL.
The news of his son's arrest did not reach John Dale at once. Though Rupert could have written or wired to him he naturally refrained from doing so. The longer his father and sister remained in ignorance of the crime of which he was accused, the better!
Bad news spreads quickly enough, and he wanted Ruby to remain in ignorance, too. It was fortunate he had burnt her postcard as quickly as he did. He had not answered it, and unless she wrote again when she left Paris he would not know her address.
It was from the lips of Sir Reginald Crichton's son that John Dale eventually learnt of Rupert's arrest. In Crichton's mind there was little doubt but that Rupert was guilty of altering the cheque, and he pitied the proud old farmer from the bottom of his heart.
For Sir Reginald also had an only son, one in whom all his hopes were centred; he could enter into John Dale's feelings and he knew how this blow would strike him. So he wrote to his son Jim, who was, fortunately, at Post Bridge Hall on leave, and asked him to break the news as best he could. Though father and son had no secrets from one another, Jim had not yet told his father of his love for Marjorie Dale. He himself knew there were many reasons against a definite announcement of their engagement. He was still young; needless to say, he could not live on his pay, and though his father made him an allowance it barely covered his expenses. Flying was an expensive game, and, like all men attached to the Royal Flying Corps, Jim's energy and keenness knew no bounds. He was always experimenting, trying new engines, building new machines—giving the benefit of his experience to his corps and to his country.
And there was Marjorie's side of the question and her point of view to be considered. Being both so young, having both been brought up in natural healthy surroundings, it was impossible for them to hide their feelings from one another, and before he was aware of it, Jim had confessed his love and read a corresponding confession in Marjorie's eyes.
It was not until afterwards, when quietly and soberly he thought out their position and considered the question of their marriage, that he realised love was all in all to a woman, but to him, while he had his profession, it would only be part of his life. And that at present his life was not his own. Not only did it belong to his country, but he risked it almost daily. For that reason alone he felt he could not tie Marjorie down to a formal engagement.
Sir Reginald Crichton little knew the effect his letter, telling his son all about the altered cheque and Rupert Dale's arrest, would have on him. Had he guessed he might not have written it.
He asked him to break the news to poor old John Dale, to tell him that he, Sir Reginald, was seeing his son had the best legal advice that could be obtained, and to advise Dale to come up to London immediately.
It was with a heavy heart that Jim Crichton walked over to Blackthorn Farm early in the morning after he received Sir Reginald's letter. It was not an easy or a pleasant job to tell another man's father that his only son had been arrested on a criminal charge. He was rather annoyed with his father for not writing direct to Dale. For, after all, he could only blurt the news out in a way that might hurt more than if it had been conveyed by letter.
Youth must always be a little egotistical and a little selfish, and what troubled Jim most of all was the shock the news would give to the woman he loved—and the effect it might have on their love and their future life.
If Rupert Dale were guilty! Jim Crichton was a soldier, and so could not help being a little conventional and having more respect sometimes for the opinion of others than his own opinion. He had to consider what the world thought and said. He knew he would have to consider his own position as well as his father's. And he knew as he walked along the banks of the purling Dart in which Rupert and he had often fished together as boys, that before seeing Marjorie and telling her, he would have to make up his mind as to the position he would take up in this wretched affair—if her brother were found guilty. He knew it meant that the Dales would be ruined, probably financially as well as socially.
In the West country a social sin is never forgiven, never forgotten. They would have to leave Devonshire and go far away. And he might never see Marjorie again.
He halted, sat down on a giant boulder, and looked across the bleak moorland to Blackthorn Farm not a quarter of a mile away. At that moment he realised for the first time how deeply he loved Marjorie Dale.
Better than anyone else in the world; more than anyone else in the world. She even came before his profession.
It was with a shock he discovered this. But he had to confess it to himself.
He could not give her up. Not even though her brother were convicted of being a criminal and sent to prison.
It was a glorious summer day. The sun was rising in a cloudless blue sky. A gentle wind brought the scent of gorse. Here and there streaks of purple showed in red heather where it had burst into bloom. Now and then a trout leapt with a noisy splash in the pool at his feet.
A long time James Crichton sat on the granite boulder lost in thought, trying to look at the thing from every point of view, arguing and reasoning with himself. No matter what happened, he could not give up Marjorie. If he had only considered his own feelings, it might have been possible, even though it meant a broken heart. But she loved him. He belonged to her; she looked to him for her future life and happiness. She had done no wrong. Why should she, he asked himself, suffer for her brother's sin?
He could save her, even though it meant humbling himself, even though it meant giving up the profession he loved.
He knew the decision to which he had come would hurt his father terribly; but if it came to a choice between him and Marjorie, he knew he should choose the woman who was destined to be his mate; the girl, the whole of whose life lay before her, rather than the man, his own father whose life had been lived.
It was a terrible choice, perhaps a strange one. But Jim instinctively felt he was right.
So deep was his reverie that he did not hear a light step on the grassy ground. A hand was laid on his shoulder and he started, looked up, and found Marjorie smiling into his face.
"My dear!" he cried, jumping to his feet. "My dearest!"
He took her in his arms with a passion she had never felt before and held her so fiercely that she would have cried out with the pain had she not loved him as she did.
"Jim.... You frightened me—and I thought to frighten you," she panted when he released her. "You don't know how strong you are." She glanced at him, her cheeks scarlet, the love and dawn of passion swimming in her eyes. She wore no hat and her hair shone in the golden sunshine. Her neck and arms were bare, and her short, workman-like skirt showed her tiny, well-bred ankles and long, narrow feet. Jim looked at her silently, hungrily.
Slowly her colour fled and she came close to him again, holding out her hands. "Is anything wrong?"
Without replying he put his arm around her and led her away towards Blackthorn Farm.
Some one lounging on Post Bridge might see them. A labourer in the fields, or a farmer on the hills, who would carry the news back to his cottage at night that he had seen the young master of Post Bridge Hall making love to old John Dale's daughter. But he did not care—now. Every one should soon know that they loved and that Marjorie was to be his affianced wife.
He told her as gently as he could what had happened. Of course, he made as light of it as possible, assuring her that Rupert would be released and the affair cleared up satisfactorily.
"That's why the guv'nor wrote to me instead of your father and asked me to tell him and see him off to London. He was afraid if he wrote Mr. Dale would put the worst construction possible on the affair. It's quite a common thing for a man to be arrested by mistake on some scraps of evidence the police get hold of.... Don't you worry, Marjorie. You've got to leave all the worrying to me in future."
She tried to smile and press his hand, but the happiness had left her eyes and her face was very pale now. "I'm frightened," she whispered. "I can't help it, Jim—if father goes to London I must go with him."
But James Crichton shook his head. "That's just what you mustn't do. That friend of Rupert's I saw the other day will see him safely up to town. Despard was his name, wasn't it? I suppose he's still here?"
Marjorie nodded. "Yes. He and Rupert had made some discovery in the old tin-mine. They were awfully excited about it." She tried to laugh. "They were going to find radium and make a fortune, I believe. I heard them say something about it.... Oh, Jim, we were so happy and everything seemed to be turning out so well. And now this has happened. Rupert—it can't be true. Of course, I know it isn't true. It will kill father."
Jim forced himself to laugh. "My dear, we shall have him back here within a week. You mustn't think anything more about it. There's something else I want to tell you. I'm going to announce our engagement—at once."
She looked at him with unbelieving eyes, almost as if she could not understand. Then she shook her head.
"Not now, Jim. We must wait until—until Rupert's free; this charge against him disproved."
He shook his head, and, stopping, held her in his arms again. "Darling, if by any chance the worst should happen, it would make no difference to our love! Nothing would force me to give you up. That's why I'm going to announce our engagement now. Now, while this thing is hanging over our heads."
Again she would have protested, but he silenced her. "I've made up my mind, nothing can change it."
Holding her hand he led her forward and opened the gate that led into the farmhouse garden. As they entered they saw Despard lounging in a chair on the lawn reading the morning newspaper, a pipe between his lips. He glanced up as they entered, smiled at Marjorie, and without taking the pipe from his lips, or rising, gave Jim Crichton a curt nod.
"Bounder!" was the latter's silent ejaculation. But he saw old John Dale standing in the doorway, so, giving Marjorie's hand a gentle pressure, he left her.
Telling Mr. Dale he had something to say to him in private he entered the dining-room.
"You bring me bad news of my son," Dale said quietly. "I know it."
"How did you?" Jim asked, off his guard. "Surely it hasn't got into the local papers."
Dale stepped forward instantly, then, gripping the back of his chair, sat down. "So, it's true," he said in a broken voice. "It's true." He gave a mirthless laugh. Jim tried to speak, but the words refused to come. He would have done anything to spare the father of the girl he loved. He would have borrowed the money from his father, hushed the affair up, and repaid the bank. He would have done anything.
"It's true he has been arrested," Jim said after he had given the old man time to recover himself. "But I'm quite sure he will be able to prove his innocence. I know my father thinks so, too. Indeed, he himself is employing the best legal advice he can obtain, and will see he is given every chance of defending himself. We want you to come up to town, if you will, sir, and, if possible, to catch the train to-day." He glanced at the grandfather clock in a corner of the room. "There is one that leaves Newton Abbot about two-thirty, I think. I can motor you in. I am sure Mr. Despard will accompany you."
John Dale shook his head slowly to and fro. "Yes, I must go up. I must see him," he whispered. He rose to his feet and held out his hand. "You're too good, Mr. James. I'm afraid—I'm afraid——"
"You needn't be," Jim interrupted quickly. "Rupert's innocent, I'll swear. Anyway, we'll see to him and see that justice is done."
"Yes; that's so. Justice must be done at all costs." John Dale raised his head and looked proudly at Sir Reginald Crichton's son.
The latter took his hand and shook it warmly. "Then I'll be round with the motor in about an hour's time. Perhaps you'll warn Mr. Despard that you want him to go with you. Anyway, under the circumstances, he could not be left here alone with your daughter, could he?"
He walked to the door, then stopped. "There's something else I would like to say, sir, though it may not seem quite the moment. I love your daughter Marjorie: I hope to make her my wife. With your permission I should like to announce our engagement at once."
It was a long time before Dale replied. "That's impossible now. But I thank you, Mr. Crichton.... It is just the sort of thing I—I would have expected—from Sir Reginald's son."
The old man broke down then, and Jim saw tears coursing down the lined and furrowed cheeks. He bit his lip. "It is not impossible, sir. I want to announce the engagement now; now, at this moment, while this charge is hanging over your son's head. Do you think a thing like that would make any difference to my love for your daughter? It's at this moment she wants my love and the protection of my name. And she shall have it."
Without waiting for a reply he opened the door. Dale stopped him.
"I ought to tell you," he said unsteadily, "that last night Mr. Despard, Rupert's friend, made the same request—told me he loved Marjorie and asked for her hand."
"What did you say?"
"Of course, I refused," Dale replied. "Why, they've only known each other a few days. But, putting that aside, I'm afraid I dislike and distrust the man. I feel he's one of the men who has led my son into bad ways."
He bent over the table and bowed his head between his hands. Again there was a long silence.
"You have no objection to me as a son-in-law, Mr. Dale?"
"Surely that question needs no answer—but, please say no more now. Leave me, Mr. James."
Quietly closing the door behind him Jim walked out of the house into the garden. Taking no notice of Mr. Despard, he drew Marjorie aside and told her what had happened.
"I am driving your father—and Mr. Despard—to Newton Abbot in about an hour's time. When I come back we'll have a little run in the car—tea together at Moretonhampstead, perhaps. Or, better still, we'll go over to Hey Tor and have a picnic on our own. Cheer up, darling, all will be well, I know."
Bending down, he kissed her in full view of Robert Despard. The latter scrunched theWestern Morning Newsup between his hands with an oath.
Waving a farewell to Marjorie, Jim swung through the gate and hurried across the moorlands towards Post Bridge Hall.
An hour later he was driving both John Dale and Mr. Robert Despard to Newton Abbot junction. And he could not help feeling some satisfaction when the train carried the latter gentleman away from Devonshire back to London.